Amongst Wolves and Stone
by o-renishiii
Summary: "That night Thorin slept uneasily; plagued with dreams of wolves chasing foxes and swords trapped in stone."/ Fox is a rogue exiled from her home in the East to protect her charge from Sauron's forces. Thorin is an exiled King, desperate to reclaim his homeland. Their paths should not have crossed but, thanks to a Wizard they did. Now neither will ever be the same (Rewrite)
1. A Meeting of Friends

" _A fox is a wolf who sends flowers."_

 _-Ruth Brown_

* * *

 **Chapter 1: A Meeting of Friends**

 _ **The**_ hazy outline of the village of Bree all but disappeared in a swirl of screaming silver as the blizzard outside raged on.

Those who did not have a steady roof and a warm hearth to take refuge in found their way to the poorly lit Prancing Pony where the oak doors rattled in its hinges, the ambiance was murky with the smoke of pipe weed and, the smell of stale ale hung in the air.

It was in this desolate inn, at a small table at the far end of the room near the fire, the hooded figure Gandalf had been searching for sat alone.

The tall man lumbered over, watching with critical eyes as the cloaked woman rubbed her gloved thumbs over the rim of her tankard; the diamond piercing in her nose twinkling in the dim orange glow of the pub.

"Gandalf." she greeted around upturned lips, her husky voice friendly yet, the wizard noticed her amber eyes burned with a fire too hot to be wholly amicable.

Ignoring the bit of snow that was still latched onto his person, Gandalf, with a small flourish of his long hat, took a seat on the bench opposite of the young woman and set down his own pint in front of hers.

"Hello, Fox." Gandalf greeted, resting his elbows on the unfinished wood of the table.

"I see you have been caught in the storm as well." She surmised pulling her hood off her head and, allowing a few unruly curls to drop onto caramel cheeks.

"I am not caught in anything my dear; this horrid weather may steal the warmth from my bones but, it does not take my ability to make decisions. I am exactly where I am meant to be." the old man reasoned and he relished in the way that, at least for an instant, all the suspicion that remained in the little fox across the table seemed to flee at his words. All the sharp edges and hard lines melted off her appearance, until all that was left was a genuine smile and rounded face; making her look as young as he knew, she truly was.

"Oh, and where exactly is that supposed to be?"

"With a friend and a pint." Gandalf confided, lifting his jug in a toast before taking a hardy swing

through his snow-colored beard.

Fox tipped her own drink in his direction at that before, taking a more delicate sip from her own tankard.

Once she had drunk, the appearance of ease shifted once again into an edged expression that made Gandalf stomach twist. "And why is it exactly that you traveled through such a storm to see little old me" She inquired through bared fangs, nimble fingers curling into claws around her drink.

"Caution child," Gandalf warned gravely as he straightened his back and allowed the ghost of the ancient magic that haunted him to seep through his words and surround the table. "I am not your prey nor am I your enemy. This is a meeting of friends _Fox."_

The small woman simmered down at the obvious threat of the Wizard; the way her title was said served as a reminder that she had not always been The Fox and, that Gandalf was well aware.

"I mean you no harm Gandalf, you know this. We have simply been friends long enough for me to know when you appear out of the blue it is because something is wrong or something will be wrong. You cannot fault me for being suspicious." she explained hands raised in a sign of peace. "S _orry."_

Despite her words, there was no apology in her manner; quite the opposite, even in the humble position her eyes danced in delight, entire demeanor mocking.

Gandalf chose to pay this no mind as he has known for years now that the Fox reveled in mayhem and riling up those around her.

"This is a manner of utmost importance, focus trickster! This is no time for foxy games." the wanderer leaned forward, bowing his head and hunching his thin, aged shoulders. "Is it safe?"

Fox immediately sobered, nodding in confirmation, choosing not to offer any other proof or assurance.

This did not matter to Gandalf for he trusted both her and the stone.

As a child, Fox found the stone and had kept it with her throughout the years, becoming guardian to the great power long before knowledge of what the stone was capable of came to light. Once what could be done with a power such as the stones was known, she had accepted the burden of keeping it away from the hands of those who would use it against the Free People of Middle Earth.

Though, the Wizard had an inkling this weight was not quite a burden on the keeper of the _itinerantur_ _ **.**_ These magical artifacts, the most famous being the rings of power, did indeed have a habit of coercing their bearers into giving their allegiance readily and without restraint. He believed the hold of the opal stone on the Easterly across the table, was now stronger than even the most sacred bond between souls. The role of keeper could not- _would not_ be- given up willingly by the Fox.

This was not the only ability the stone possessed, the full extent of these abilities were unknown even to likes of Gandalf. While, it was well known amongst the Protectors of Middle Earth that relics of ancient magic tend to have the habit of altering their bearers- not changing who they were, per say, only making them much _more_ themselves than they had been before- it became clear that the _itinerantur_ worked differently than the evil rings of legend. While the rings of power, for example, brought out the worst in their holder, the _itinerantur_ stone revealed the bearers _fea celva_ \- their spirit animal.

Gandalf considered it good luck, and the will of the Valar, that the _itinerantur_ was found by a fox. A creature as playful and cunning in nature as it was capable, and protective, as opposed to a snake.

More importantly, he considered it incredibly lucky the stone was found by the child that would grow to become the woman in front of him. For, despite her faults, she was morally sound, selfless and fiercely loyal.

"That's very good. Very good indeed" Gandalf muttered, leaving his thoughts of magical relics behind momentarily. "It is beginning… he is stirring."

At those words, his companion snapped her teeth in horror, body tensed and, spine curved in a way Gandalf knew was not entirely human.

"It will be many years until he fully rises again; but, I fear the day will come." Gandalf continued, face taut with worry.

"If you have come for a lesson on the inner workings of the stone, Gandalf you know I cannot give you that. Even if I did find out more, I would not - _could not-_ speak of it. You told me that yourself. I watch over it, not yield it. I am never to yield it."

' _Yes,_ ' Gandalf thought, ' _very lucky indeed.'_

"I understand that young Fox, more than even you do; and yet, I find myself here." Gandalf reached for his pipe under his robe, and lit it with a tiny flame from his own fingertips; illuminating his burdened face and unveiling the turbulence hidden in his clouded eyes. "It is peculiar, how the heart can overcome the mind, is it not."

The Fox had no response to this and there was a long pause as Gandalf inhaled the old Toby, enjoying the burn in his lungs for a moment before, releasing it into the air above him; creating a halo of smoke the same color of his robes.

"So, what is it you're planning then Gandalf?" She interjected, breaking his moment of thought with her impatience.

"How do you feel about slaying a Dragon, my dear?"

The cloaked woman blinked once, then twice before finally seeming to register what it is Gandalf was asking and the Wizard watched as the gleam of blood lust began to form in her eyes, a gleam made even more prominent and devilish by the thin, inky line of Easterly war paint drawn around them.

In response, she sent him a sharp flash of white teeth, in a smile as blistering as the dying embers of the fire behind them and as ferocious as the blizzard raging on outside.

"Oh, I feel _very_ strongly about it."

"Well then, you and I little guardian, have much work to do… and it begins in The Shire."

* * *

 **A/N: This is the re-written version of a story I started about a year ago. I hope you guys enjoy and I'm sorry to the people who had already read the other one, but I just couldn't go anywhere with it with the way it was heading.**

 **Please expect an update every Friday night! I'm already more than half way done with the story at this point.**

 **Enjoy!**


	2. A Red SKy

_"Many Foxes grow gray but, few grow good."_

 _\- Benjamin Franklin_

* * *

 **Chapter 2: A Red Sky**

 **Five months later**

 **The** smolder of summer had finally returned after a wet spring. Daytimes lasted longer, dark clouds moved on, animals that had once hidden from rains and snow thrived, and the birds once again took flight. But, despite the dulcet atmosphere, there was no mistaking the undertone of red-tinged in the sky.

Blood had been shed that day.

And with that thought in mind, Fox watched as the slaver at her feet inhaled one last time then stilled.

The young Easterly sighed as she straightened up from her crouched position by the body, stretching out her protesting muscles and ignoring the potent smell of copper mixed with pine in the dry air. She wiped the bloody, curved dagger she had used to end this mans life on the black cloth of her _dhoti_ pants- a custom Easterly garb that flared out at her thighs yet hugged her ankles and exposed hip like a second skin- and let the blood seep into the dark material of her trousers, disappearing from sight, eliminating any indication of the killing that had just occurred.

All evidence aside from the red staining the heavens of course.

The Fox sighed heavily, pushing back a wave of seed of guilt, and twirled the dagger between her fingers. She tilted her head upward, allowing the soft rays of the Western sun to wash over the scarred, mutilated skin on her exposed shoulders and back in the most pleasant of ways, and listened to the sounds of birdsong that came in random bursts and lulls.

Back in the deserts she'd been born to, the powerful rays of a constant summer had been unrelenting and harsh, they burned and seared until all that was left was raw mangled flesh. The lands were vast, the only sounds heard were those of shifting sands and cries of war. Here, in the Old Forest by the Shire on the other hand, everything was fresh and the colors surrounding her had the softness of that time just before twilight. The tranquility and peace that came with being in the land of Hobbits never failed to enchant and surprise Fox. It also never failed to remind her that she did not belong there; which the dead body on the floor was doing well enough on its own at that moment.

She would have to burn the body soon, she couldn't let the soul linger unrested too long.

Fox glanced up and scanned through thick vegetation, beyond the falling leaves, shifting bushes and twisting roots of the Old Forest, in search for any remaining slavers. If there were any left they had probably already fled deeper into the wood. Of course, the chances of there being any slavers left were slim. She had spent the past two weeks teamed up with a pair of Ranger sibilings tracking and picking those lawless men off before they could set off to the East Road to Rhun with the intent to sell Hobbit children.

She had been staying in an old shack near Bywater, as per Gandalf's request to remain close to Hobbiton, and had heard many rumors of Hobbit children disappearing into the night. It hadn't taken long to put two and two together and took less time to find the familiar Rangers right at the slavers heels.

Admittedly, it was a good thing Fox had found them when she did. If it had been up to the brothers, they would have simply raided a camp of fourteen between the two of them and hoped for the best.

The fools.

Suddenly, a string of barked curses and the loud stomping of heavy boots approaching from behind interrupted her thoughts. The melody of roaming animals changed into the racket of scuttering and panic as they ran from the intruder. A vague sense of dread trickled through Fox's spine; she recognized the loud, clumsy footsteps of Jax immediately.

Jax with his great height, big arms, strong jaw, and masculine traits had been the first illegitimate child of the lord of their small village. Taken into a stable home to be raised by the Lord's wife and trained as a future soldier of Gondor, he had become everything a good warrior should be- unyielding, relentless and overall, awful to be around.

Already she felt her muscles tensing and toes curling into the loam. The Fox was not in the mood to deal with the massive man's attitude and blatant racism, but she had no reason to get up, or more preferably, lash out.

Not yet at least.

"Any stragglers critter," he called, gruff voice echoing through the trees as the footsteps grew nearer. His large frame towered over the smaller woman in front of him.

"Oh yes, can't you see I am overrun with them," Fox shot back, looking fixedly at the forests horizon. Maybe if she did not face him, he would have some sense and leave. Already she felt the fragile control she had over her _fea selva_ wavering, the stone hidden in her necklace grew warmer, and the vague feeling of restlessness that was continually thrumming in her chest strengthened, just slightly.

Fox was well accustomed to the effects of the stone after so much time with it but, as the years passed, the line between The Fox and the human she was born as became thinner and thinner; she did not mind. This was who she truly was and who she was born to be - yet, she still attempted to hold on to the bit of humanity she had left.

Sometimes she wondered why.

Behind her, the Rangers broad shoulders rolled in displeasure at the jab, and his retort came through clenched teeth. "There's one at your feet is there not."

At his response, the young woman finally turned to the grimy, blonde Son of Man; her eyes in slits and face twisting alarmingly.

"Well spotted you brave, strong man," she simpered, challenge shimmering in her eyes and violence in her posture. "He's been quite troublesome to stop. I'm not sure an innocent maiden such as myself could defeat such an enemy. Perhaps you should do so for me" Fox gestured to the unmoving body sprawled on the floor, shoes sinking inconveniently into the soil as she took one dramatic step aside, smirk biting. "I insist."

Before the hulking man could so much open his mouth to argue or draw a weapon the lean figure of his brother Kruze strolled forward, appearing from the shadows of the woods in the way that only he knew how. Born to another mistress of their Lord, Kruze was the unlucky brother born as the bastard child of the village whore; raised to fend for himself and steal to survive.

That is why he and the Fox got along so well - ateast as well as a Ranger and outlaw can.

Standing at only half a foot taller than Fox, with beady eyes, a long nose, and thin arms Kruze glowered at both humans; face pinched with displeasure at their actions. Considering the creases and folds in his constantly strained features never seemed to smoothen out, Fox couldn't help but think he somewhat resembled a ferret. She had always been convinced his face was permanently set in that strained grimace. Whether it was because of his constant scowling or due to frequently squinting down at the shaft of his bow she did not know.

"Fox quit tha'. Yah doesn't have to be antagonizing folks all the time." Kruze scolded, placing a restraining hand on Jax's shaking sword arm.

If it had not been for the small twinge of remorse at Kruze's words Fox would've found his brothers clenching fists and apparent overreaction to her little jest humorous but, she recognized the truth in his words. Other than the act of gracing her with his infuriating presence, Jax hadn't given Fox a reason to lash out. He had asked a valid question, an unnecessary one, yet valid nonetheless.

Rotating back to the wilderness to hide the hint of regret in her expression, Fox ignored the long-haired Ranger's words and got back to the matter at hand.

"Did you find the Halfling children esteemed Lord Shadow?"

Kruze ignored the Fox's quip on his Ranger name and Jax's immature grumble; he simply gave a nod at the female's question instead.

"Aye, we're leavin' now. Kiddies will be reunited with their sires by tomorrow's noon tea - o' whatever it is these folks 'ave."

"Good."

A satisfied smile flitted across Fox's face, small and fleeting in nature like the wisps of candles smoke, before she forced it down. Lives taken by her hand, no matter how pathetic those lives were, was not something to smile about. All lives were precious and deserving of respect, a lesson her _jidd -_ her grandmothe _r_ had taught her years ago.

At the reminder of that lesson, Fox instantly felt her stomach drop. Not even a moment ago she had been using the body that was still bleeding out at her feet as the means of a joke. She had to burn it soon.

Seven years ago, when the Fox left the tribe in the autumn of her fourteenth year to become keeper to the stone currently hidden in the leather tied around her neck, she made a promise to her _jidd ._ If she were ever to take a life in her time as a Guardian, she would release the soul of her victim into the universe. As most likely, they would not have family nearby-or any at all- to do a ritual to bring them peace after death.

"And what of all the rest of the slavers? If we did not get them all, then this was for nothing. If the Trade is to find they have been attacked near the Shire, they'll return with more men and a vengeance." she inquired, putting her guilt aside for the time being. "There are only so many men we can hold off with just our good intentions."

"You dare imply the Rangers of the North can't handle some vermin -" Jax started leaning forward to sneer down at the woman's back. Before he could finish a loud snarl ripped its way out of her throat as she swung around, lips curlingto reveal the small flick of her tongue.

"Watch yourself, Ranger. Play too rough, and you'll get bit," she growled, voice low in warning.

"Oi! That's enough the two of yah!"

Fox's temper flared once again at Kruze's interference. A muscle in her jaw twitched, it took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to unsheathe her blade and lunge towards Jax to take a good swipe at his eye; attacking the brother of one of her only allies would not be the strongest or sanest move on her part.

In their endeavors, Kruze and Fox had come to an understanding with simple conditions. Fox never went too far with her temper, and Kruze never gave her a reason to do so. There was nothing overtly warm or affectionate about their agreement; it simply served to keep them on good terms.

Dealing with his rude, quick-tempered older brother was not a part of it.

"Simply" she bit out, reeling in her anger and attempting to ignore the rising heat of the _itinerantur_ stinging her from its place in her necklace. _Control yourself_ she reminded herself, "tell me how many we defeated."

"The gent' on the ground makes ten," Kruze admitted wearily, eyeing her appearance of torment and watching out for another one of her sudden displays of aggression. He could never tell when they were coming. "So that leaves 'bout four more left to be 'unted. But, we can't be catchin' these criminals with an army o' greenie Shire Folk at our backs. Yah have to 'andle the last ones by your lonesome Foxy."

As Kruze intended, Fox calmed when she heard that name. It was not a name meant as a term of endearment or sign of friendship but, as a sign of acceptance. A reminder that they were on the same side.

It was the name he called her on the day they met when Kruze was hired to guide a sixteen-year-old Fox to Rivendale for the first time.

"Very well, go off with the easy task whilst, I do all the hard work," she teased. Despite the steel still gleaming in her eyes, she spoke with a trace of humor. The small lift in the corners of her lips displayed a single dimple that neither man knew she had.

Kruze tentatively grinned back at her and Fox noted, with the tiniest sense of attachment, that his face remained pinched even while smiling.

"See ya around Foxy. Get 'em good, yah she-demon."

With that said, the Ranger of the North grabbed the frayed, cloak of his confused half-brother, hauled him through the tightly knit trees and took his leave. The racket of Jax's sloppy steps slowly faded into the distance, until the harmonies of birds and leaves were whispered to the wind once again.

The Fox glimpsed up again, left in such a pleasant mood she expected the sliver of sky visible through the branches to be as bright and undisturbed as her mood.

Instead, the ether was stained with red.

That is when she remembered there was still a corpse at her feet.

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 **A/N:Chapter 2! Please R/R!**

 **Thank you so much for the reviews so far!**


	3. Cries in the Wind

" _I recognize in thieves, traitors and murderers, in the ruthless and the cunning, a deep beauty - a sunken beauty."  
_

 _Jean Genet  
_

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 **Chapter 3: Cries in the Wind**

A couple hundred yards to the south of Fox's location, making his way past the hills of the Barrow-downs and trudging toward the outskirts of the Old Forest, Thorin Oakenshield pushed off his pony, wiped at the sweat on his brow and shimmied out of the thick warm coat draped on his person.

He decided he would walk another few hours into the Forest, before, settling in for the night. The meeting of kin in the Iron Hills weighed too heavily on his conscience for him to sleep now, he was filled with too much restless energy- too much anger and betrayal- despite knowing in his heart, that Dain and the rest of his kin did indeed do the right thing by not aiding him. His pride would never allow him to fully accept this. Therefore, instead of dwelling on the hopelessness of the quest he was about to embark he focused on the task at hand, repeating the words his wise yet, hot-headed sister had yelled at him as she threw an ax at his head many years ago. _Do not waste time dwelling when you can be taking action Thorin Oakenshield!_

Grabbing the reins of his pony more roughly than intended, he led the mare to the nearest tree bark and tied her reins to the tree to take his supplies off. Then, pulled off the saddle and ropes to set her free.

Peaches neighed her displeasure at the rough treatment, and Thorin stroked her muzzle softly with his own shaking fingers. Whether they were shaking with fury or fear he did not know, nor did he wish to.

"Apologies my loyal friend." he rumbled. "It is for the best if I continue from here alone. There will b"

The pony nickered softly, enjoying the dwarves touch. Thorin assumed it to be a farewell and turned stomping towards the forest with just his satchel on his back.

It was on the third day of traveling through the blasted forest that Thorin Oakenshield, Son of Thrain, Son of Thror admitted he was lost. To his utmost annoyance, he had resorted to following lingering footsteps left behind, in hopes to find his way to what the Grey Wizard had called Bag End.

Wretched Hobbits he thought angrily, spitting on the ground and hiking up his supplies over his shoulder. He desperately wished he carried more Old Toby for his broken pipe and, cursed the day he foolishly finished the weed and threw the pipe in a childish fit of displeasure the day of the meeting with his kinfolk. It has been many years since he's gone without a smoke when he so desires it. He has become spoiled.

Thorin scoffed at the pitifulness of his thoughts. An exiled, homeless King spoiled with smokes.

As soon as the thought appeared Thorin pushed his pathetic musings away before he delved too deep in in them and would have to struggle to escape their clutches. That would take up too much time, he had a Hobbit Hole to reach.

He put all his energy into following the footsteps that left in the soil. They were heading in the general direction he knew the Shire to be in. Iit would lead him there.

As he trekked on Thorin could not escape the feeling of being watched and followed. Many times he found the hairs on the back at his neck had stood at attention or heard a sharp crack of twigs.

Though he told himself that this was a peaceful land, the most peaceful land in all of Middle-Earth actually, he could not ignore his growing unease. With good reason as well because without warning, Thorin heard the sounds of footfalls that were not his own; he only had time to duck before a knife whizzed past the top of his head.

He shot up from his crouch, unsheathing his sword and reared his arm back to swing but, something barrelled into him from the side before he could. With a great humph, the two bodies rolled onto the floor in a pile of limbs and swords.

It was the attacker who gained his footing and stood first after a surprisingly powerful punch in the gut that sent Thorin stumbling again. He scrambled toward Thorin's fallen pack but, despite his upper hand, Thorin had experience on his side and recovered quickly.

Thorin moved swiftly, catching his opponent behind the knee and sending whoever this person was tumbling to the gracefully climbed to his feet and snatched his sword from the floor

"Who are you?" Thorin demanded, standing over his attacker. Without flailing limbs and the light of the sun glinting off steel obstructing his view, Thorin looked at his attacker for the first time. He was tall and lanky, a young man, with dark, unkempt hair and covered in dirt. He looked thin, yet he stared up at Thorin with a glare.

Thorin opened his mouth to demand a response from the attempted thief, but the man swiped at Thorin with a dagger he had pulled from his boot and clambered to his feet.

Thorin readied his sword arm and fell into his stance. He did not wish to enter combat with this thief yet; the thief seemed willing enough. So be it.

"If it is a fight you desire, a fight you shall have," Thorin rumbled lifting his sword.

But a fight never came.

Suddenly, the man froze in his stance and, for a fleeting second, his entire form went rigid before the tenseness seemed to drain from his body. Thorin could only gape as the dark-haired Man melted onto the floor, foaming at the mouth.

He stood still in shock, sword still raised as if his enemy were not dead at his feet. Then a light shuffling noise sounded to his left, small enough to pass as only a stirring of the leaves. It shook Thorin from his stillness nonetheless, and he spun toward the noise, swinging his sword over his head and slashing in the direction of the invisible murderer. That was a form of warfare Thorin had only heard about in legend. He understood now why the man seemed so desperate.

One who wields a poison dart … an assassin… A blade for hire.

There was only one land in Middle Earth where such scum bred.

"Show yourself assassin" he roared, fighting down the urge to take a few steps backward to use the bark of a tree as a shield for his back- at least there his backside would be safe – but, his pride would not let him. He was a warrior and a King; he would not show this savage any weakness.

"Show yourself!" he barked again. "Come out and, face me Eastern coward -"

Any other insults he was prepared to yell was cut off by a voice coming from the trees above. The voice was unexpected. It was low and feminine, with an agreeable trace of raspiness that hinted at an accent Thorin had never heard before.

"You are a funny Dwarve, " it called, "and an ignorant one. You call me Eastern, yet accuse me of being _hasharin,_ an assassin, who hail from the South."

Thorin's blade lowered on instinct.

"You are a woman?"

"And you need to revisit your geography lessons, " the voice – she – responded mockingly. "Now we have both stated the obvious."

So thrown off balance was Thorin that he barely registered her mockery or the sound of shifting branches as the woman slithered down the tree she was occupying. It was not until a small, lithe figure dropped onto the ground, with such a softness that the sound of her boots hitting the earth only compared to the pitter of a raindrop, did Thorin realize this mysterious killer was now in front of him

Thorin was shocked at what he saw. Never before had he seen such…

He had heard the stories of these Men from the far lands but, he had underestimated the difference of these people from the Men he had encountered in his travels.

She stood just around his height, small, limber and curvy. She was not as tall, or full figured as most females of the race of Men yet, not as sturdy or bearded as the females of his own kin. Most likely she had ancestors of both Man and Dwarve. They did not have the same reservations in regards to relationships of different races in the East. Her skin was the color of melted honey; her features were delicate – a small nose studded with the tiniest of diamonds, full red lips and, beauty marks dusted across her cheeks like constellations. Her hair, a warm brown color with concealed strands of red revealed in the sunlight, spilled down her bare shoulders in knotted curls. There was no question that she was beautiful in the face, for a daughter of Man, but Thorin saw past the deceiving youthful beauty in her features. He noticed something else. It was a secret hidden in the scars splattered throughout her skin, in her upturned lips that taunted Thorin though she did not say a word and it was written in the black tattooed ink that lined her collarbone with words he could not read. Most of all, it was a secret hidden in the severity laced in her bearing despite her grin.

 _Tainted…_ He thought. _She is tainted._

Said woman glanced at him with eyes such a light brown they were gold and raised a single brow.

There was a beat of silence while the woman and dwarf stared at one another. He knew she waited for a response, but he would not grace her with one. She did not deserve it nor did he know what to say.

"Oh, you are dull," she drawled around her smile after a moment,"no wit."

This insult did not merit a response. Thorin gave one anyway.

"And you are a disgrace, girl," Thorin gritted out. "You would kill a man with his back turned, with poison instead of a blade. You kill with no honor! Be gone! Before I forsake my morals and do with you as you did him."

His vexation only seemed to amuse her more, though he did not miss the subtle tightening of her eyes. "Fox." she said, "I am the Fox, not girl. I assure you I am of age. You did call me 'woman' just moments ago."

Thorin's jaw jumped. He did not want her name. He wished to know what she was doing in this Forest

instead of the Dust Bowls of her people. More so, he wanted her as far away from him as possible.

"I did not ask for your name, I commanded you to leave," he repeated hotly. Still, she did not move.

"I did not give you a name, I said I am the Fox. You are not a very good listener are you, dwarve?"

Thorin went to respond but, at last, she budged and to his utmost annoyance, she advanced closer instead of farther. Thorin immediately moved back to put distance between them, raising his sword with one hand and his shield in the other.

"Why interrupt my duel?" Thorin asked, "Was it murder for sport or a hired job?" _And, if so, did they send you for me as well,_ was his unasked question. Thorin knew of the bounty over his head. He would not put it past his enemies to send one of the Black Men to finish the job.

"Neither. I hunted him."

Thorin figured as much. "You were sent." he surmised, clutching the sword hilt in his palm harder. _For me?_

"No one commands me, dwarve. I do as I please when I please... I sent myself."

"Then this was personal. Did the thief steal something of yours?"

The sharp bones in her cheeks lifted as Fox's closed mouth smirk grew to epic proportions. Thorin could not decipher if the stark curve of her lips displayed malice or mirth or some sort of hybrid of both.

"Oh, he tried."

His impatience multiplied at her evasiveness. She was toying with him, yet he was still trapped. Thorin could not go and risk this woman following him like a stray, not with the fragility of the quest he was about to embark on, nor could he leave in good conscious knowing this obviously unhinged woman could kill again. He also could not simply kill the girl and be on his way either.

Dwarves do not kill women, not unless necessary- especially younger ones like the one in front of him.

"I grow tired of your games Fox," he grunted. "Be honest with me. What is it you want?"

"Fidgety Old Wolf" she snickered. _Old Wolf?… "_ What I want is to know why is it I am dishonorable for ending him when you were prepared to do the same."

"The fact that you need ask why killing a man with his back turned, yielding poison thus leaving him without a chance to defend his own life is answer enough to that question. Not only did you bring dishonor to yourself but, you gave him a death with no glory, no dignity..." Thorin trailed off, overwhelmed with disgust for a moment. "It is unforgivable.".

For the first time since the strange woman revealed herself to him, she grew serious, pensive even. The roguery faded from her demeanor, her lips loosened from their smirk, her brows smoothened in thought and her eyes cool downed until Thorin was left staring into pools of melted gold instead of yellow flames. Thorin was surprised at what he saw; she looked younger, smaller, less dangerous - less tainted.

He dispelled those thoughts immediately. Thorin focused in on the inky line of black paint outlining the female's eyes, the inappropriateness of the clothes on her person that left her arms and midriff revealed. He reminded himself of his disgust at her heinous actions, the primitive culture, Fox seemed to wear like a badge.

 _Do not underestimate her._

"What you say may be true dwarf, but then if you had killed him, by your logic, you would be just as guilty as I," she said slowly. "You knew he would die when you raised your sword. I know how dwarves age, from your looks you are at least a hundred years old, if not older. He looked to be only a couple years older than I. He was younger than you, had obviously seen less battle than you, and was starving which was why he stole from your pouch. You knew all this, yet you raised your sword against him, while he only had a dagger. You might not have brought dishonor to yourself but, you would have also given him a death without dignity or glory." Her eyes went hard with the same underlying severity that had fallen from her expression before. "I killed him swiftly and, humanely. You would've ended him with your ego and, humiliated him while doing so. You are no better than I."

Fox glared, as if daring Thorin to argue and, due to the strength of his outrage, he did.

"How dare you." he bellowed, red clouding his vision. Suddenly, Thorin felt the rage he had been carrying around since the firedrake had claimed Erebor burst from a dark part of his soul, and sweep through his entire being. All the bitterness, the regret, the betrayal, the lost welled up in Thorin and, without his permission, his body moved. He threw his sword into the soil and stalked toward the woman.

In the haze, he vaguely noticed she did not flinch at his actions, but he was too gone to grabbed her roughly by the shoulders and slammed her into the bark of a tree.

"How… how…" Thorin was panting now, unfocused; there was too much feeling, too much. He wanted it to stop. "How dare you."

Something seemed to shift in the Fox pinned to the tree, her chin tilted in defiance, her nose flared and her chest puffed out to bump against his, challenging him. He had her pinned, but she did not act as if at his mercy, she was leering at him, poised to strike.

He wished she would.

"Not so talkative now, girl" Thorin snarled, his vision still tinged with blood and, in his eyes, she was drenched in it.

"Violent aren't you," Fox seethed, rolling her shoulders lightly, like a cat ready to pounce her prey. "and forward…. That was not very honorable of you, Wolf."

Thorin blindly banged the small woman he held against the tree. "Do not call me that."He did not understand why the nickname made his ire grow as it did, so much so he overlooked the innuendo.

At that moment, it mattered not.

The woman's eyes burned at his abuse, throwing her head back she released a shrill yowl of fury from curled lips, a sound that unnerved Thorin deeply. It was a cry of pure ferocity that rustled the trees and resonated with the winds. With that show of anger he knew her patience had run out, Thorin even welcomed it.

 _I grow tired of words, let us finish this so I may be on my way._

Yet, she did not reach for the strange blade at her hip, nor did she attack. She somehow placated herself, relaxing her posture and easing her shoulders; becoming limp under Thorin's hands. However, she could not tame her eyes; they trapped an inferno. Still, she restrained herself.

To Thorin's surprise, she glanced up at him through her lashes and a curtain of unkempt hair in wonder.

"You are like me," she whispered.

"I have nothing in common with the likes of you." Thorin strained in response, tightening his hold on her. He was a King of the line of Durin, a warrior and nobleman. "You are dirt under my boots."

"You are haunted Wol,f" Fox stated heavily, "and at war with yourself. It will be your ruin."

She might as well had gone ahead and struck him with the way her words impacted Thorin. Letting go of her hastily, he stumbled back. Memories of mad Kings, fallen dwarves, mountains of gold and, a rainbow jewel at the head of a throne rushed through him.

"You know nothing." Thorin breathed, "you do not know of being haunted or war or lost. All you know is games…. and deceit. You unbalance those around you just as you have gone demented you…. you… **rukhsul menu.** " _Child of an Orc._

She acted as if Thorin had not spoken and his temper flared. His fingers tightened around air, and he regretted throwing his sword to the ground.

 _"Look at me_ ," he thundered, but she continued to pay him no mind.

Without sparing a glance in Thorin's direction, Fox made her way to the body of the fallen man and kneeled at his side. "This is the second time this week I have stood over a dead body and argued. I continue to forget myself."

Fox spoke bluntly, yet there was an undertone of sadness weaved into her husky voice, just barely noticeable.

"You slay him, yet grieve his death?" he asked, feeling out of sorts. The anger and annoyance he felt just a second ago was fading. In its wake he felt tired and, drained.

Why had he reacted the way he did? No, he knew why, because she goaded him. Plucked at his strained nerves until he snapped, that's why.

Only mere moments in Fox's presence and his head was spinning. Though he was loathe to admit, Thorin was genuinely afraid of the Fox. Thorin always carried strong emotions; it was a burden he bared, but never had he lost control so quickly, so thoroughly in someone's presence before.

Yes, she must be at fault.

"You and your assumptions. I do not grieve my kills, I set them free," Fox admitted with exasperation. Her voice softened exponentially at her next words. "That is how I give them honor," she whispered, caressing her hand against his neck, removing the dart.

She glanced up at him, studying his disturbed expression with knowing eyes. " Don't be afraid, Wolf. I don't have magic or sorcery; I did not force you into acting the way you did. Maybe you are just terrible at self-control, it certainly seems so - I barely had to say anything to get a reaction out of you. Though I am very skilled in the art of revealing one's true self, therefore, admittedly that might have had a hand in your… tantrum."

"It seems more likely you bring out the worse in them."

"That's one in the same, Wolf," she said wryly, "the good, the bad, the dishonorable as you call it. That's all a part of who you are. The more you deny it with your rules and pointless etiquette, the more you deny yourself." Abruptly her lips twitched slightly, "I will admit you are the likes of which I've never met before. Your animal, your wolf, lingers close to the surface, closer than anyone I've ever encountered before. You won't accept him because of fear and instead, you choose to pretend to be someone- something- you are not. It's quite entertaining to watch."

Thorin knew not where to even begin asking this woman-girl- what in Durin's name she could be speaking of but, in truth, he did not want to know. He was rattled and worn. No doubt, If he continued to entertain this wildling, they would talk in circles for hours and get nowhere. He didn't even wish to speak with her, to begin with. He had just wanted to ensure she was not a threat. Now, Thorin knew she most definitely was a threat but, what type of threat, he could not figure out. At this point, it mattered not. He wanted nothing more than to sleep and pretend this encounter never occurred.

Instead of responding, he turned his back to her, collected his sword, oaken shield and pack from where he discarded them on the ground.

All the while attempting to ignore the holes her eyes burned into his clothes as she watched.

Once he gathered his items, Thorin began his trek in the direction he came from originally, with as much dignity as his weak state could muster.

Before he could make it into the grove of trees and out of sight, he heard a peal of laughter follow after him, and he froze at the sound; smooth and honed like the blade he carried in his hand. Fox's voice, reached his ears as soon as the laughter died down.

"I hope you know, once you reach the edge of the forest, you must turn left at the wheat fields to get to the road that leads to The Shire."

Thorin's heart lurched but, he schooled his features quickly. He would not fall victim again to this creature's cynical form of entertainment; he would not give this Fox the satisfaction of watching him lose control again.

"You assume to know where I am heading woman," he said over his shoulder, he did not bother to face her.

"It is the only place to go from here Dwarf." she answered deftly.

He did not respond, opting to continue his march toward a suitable camp for the night despite the sun only now beginning to set.

He walked for miles in a hollow daze. Finally, when the sun had finally finished it's decent, Thorin decided to set up camp; shrugging off his furs, dropping onto his bedroll and falling into slumber instantly.

It was not as deep as a rest as he would've preferred. That night, he slept uneasily; plagued with dreams of wolves chasing foxes, swords trapped in stone and, the echoes of shrill cries traveling with the winds.

When he woke up the next morning, covered in cold sweat. He told himself that he would forget and never speak of what happened the day before. Thorin convinced himself it was an unlucky encounter with a savage that meant absolutely nothing. So much time he spent convincing himself of this, he did not notice the edge of the forest was in sight nor did Thorin pay attention to the fact that once he reached the wheat fields, he turned right instead of left.

Thorin was late, and he knew he was. That wrong turn had cost him many hours and, by the looks of the sky, the time for supper had long since passed. He had searched tirelessly for the blasted mark the Grey One had said he would leave at the door. The natural light of day had gone out hours ago, and Thorin remained stuck circling the area and attempting to sneakily approach the strange doors and find a mark that a Wizard might've left on it.

 _And, Gandalf said it would be easy to find. Hmph. Obviously not._ He thought sourly.

Only after another two laps around the Shire, and a rather rude encounter with a chubby hobbit man with a surprisingly strong walking stick, did he finally see what he was looking for. Truthfully, he almost missed it.

It was a small dwarvish rune, hidden in the shadows of the corner of the door, which twinkled Durin blue. It was quite a small mark really but, there was no mistaking the magic-laced in it.

 _Finally._

Thorin approached the gate right before the green door and wrenched it open; thankfully it did not make too much racket as he did so; unlike a certain dumpy hobbit. He stalked up the steps, very much aware of the lingering irritation he felt from everything he had been through in the last few weeks. _Kin who would not aid me... who abandoned me, a greasy thief, a -_ he shook his head and skipped past that particular remembrance, _and, a fat hobbit with a surprisingly strong sick._

"Mahal save me from my rotten luck," Thorin grumbled reaching the top of the steps and brought his fist up to grumpily knock. Hopefully, Gandalf will be the one to answer, and Thorin can firmly inform him that no, this location was not easy to find; but, then he stopped.

Indeed Thorin had not had a good couple days...or years... or life truthfully but at the moment all those worries and despairs eased out of him at the sound of his Companies festive singing. Even standing outside the strange hobbit hole, he could hear the baritone of his kin from inside. The singing of his Sister's-Sons, Fili, and Kili, especially stuck out to Thorin; their voices jovial and, young warmed Thorin at his core. No doubt they had started this ridiculous song, or maybe it was the work of Bofur; Bofur always had a song to sing and, a tale to share. Thorin heard his distinctive accent in the harmony of dwarves as well. Thorin perked his ears to catch the singing of Dwalin but, Thorin did not hear it. The stone-faced warrior probably sat stiff and grim as the other dwarves celebrated. The thought brought a smile to Thorin's face.

He might've been on a stranger's doorstep, far away from the Mountains of where he was born but a strong feeling of home washed over him. In the presence of these loyal, brave Dwarves, who answered his call to arms with no hesitation, he was home.

With that thought in mind, the sound of boisterous laughter wafting through the door and, a welcomed warmth lingering in his heart- Thorin knocked twice, on the rounded door, just above the luminous dwarvish rune that said _**'Thief.'**_

* * *

 _ **A/N: Thanks guys for the follows, favs and comments! I'm not quite at where my story was before I re-started it, but we'll get there in time! Thanks for the support and S/O: to Tibbles for sticking through this a second time!**_

 _ **Much love**_


	4. Out of the Shadows, Into the Light

" _Where the lion's skin falls short, it must be ekked out with the fox's"  
Lysander_

* * *

 **Chapter 4: Out of the Shadows, Into the Light**

 **Engulfed** in moonshine and shadows, perched on the doorway of the Gamgee's hobbit hole, and draped in the hood of her cloak, the Fox sulked moodily.

It would be a difficult night.

She turned to face the murky outline of Bilbo Baggin's home, lightly swinging her airborne feet, making sure to mind the door rooted inches away from her boots - the last thing Fox needed was for the gardener to wake, grab his shovel and cause a scene. The blue sliver of moon that peaked just above Mr. Baggins abode hung low in the heavens, casting long, deep shadows far down the trail that led to Bag End.

The same trail the Fox had ignored since sunset.

It wasn't the quest itself that made the Eastern warrior resort to moping on the grass over a stranger's door (those Hobbit's were so _odd_ ) it was the thought of the company of dwarves.

Dwarves were an untrusting, proud race, known for their dislike of outsiders. Fox was as 'outsider' as they came. Tension, misunderstandings, and distrust would be unavoidable in their travels, which usually did not trouble the Fox since she _thrived_ in tumultuous settings _;_ the issue was that she often never stuck around long enough to have it affect her. By agreeing to this quest, the nomad had agreed to coexist with those dwarves for an indeterminable amount of time.

A notion that uneased her more than the thought of the dragon awaiting them at the end of the journey.

She sighed heavily, a gusty note brimming with excitement and trepidation. The dragon Smaug- the reason Fox would join the Dwarves in the first place.

The idea of slaying a dragon sparked to life the type of giddy bloodlust she carried her whole life. She _wanted_ this - to fight a true dragon. A race that had terrorize the lives of the innocent since before the first age. Creatures born from the fire of the sun, evil far beyond the likes of Mordor. This type of fight, this quest for vengeance, was what Fox lived for, it was all she was _._ But her desire to be apart of the quest went beyond her violent tendencies.

Smaug wasn't just any drake. He was a drake who - whether he knew it or not - had the Arkenstone in his possession. An ancient stone of magic which, from what they could tell, basked in greed.

Every stone, ring, relic, was different: they each had different fears, desires, strengths, and weaknesses. This one seemed to prey on the greedy, the _hungry_.

The Arkenstone latched onto The Line of Durin, the mightiest of the Dwarve-lords, and grew more powerful with their essence: so powerful that the stone outmatched its keeper, left the line of Durin plagued with insanity, and called upon a new keeper. One with greed that outmatched the entire kingdom of Dwarves - a dragon.

A dragon who knew nothing of the relic he slept upon. A dragon easily corrupted. A beast of flame fueld by hate, destruction, carnal desire and rapacity. A dragon who would no doubt come if the Dark Lord called.

And, he _would_ call.

Sauron was the most power hungry of all. The stone would attract like a moth to flame and vice versa. he power that could be unleashed in light of such an alliance - the _Arkenstone_ , the Dark Lord and, Smaug - would be catastrophic.

Fox's teeth gnashed in disgust, throat clugging at the overwhelming feeling of suddenly being watched. She cursed herself for thinking of him. It was those thoughts of fear that kept Sauron from fading fully, those thoughts that were brining him back.

Thinking of Sauron was a mistake she made more often than she should've.

Her hands flew to clutch at the leather around her neck. The warmth of the _itinerantur_ hidden in the cloth calmed her almost instantly, the sensation causing her eyes to flutter. The stone was comforting her, reminding her that it was safe, that she had done her job so far and, kept it away from harm.

Sauron was weak as of now; she could feel that much. There was physically nothing he could do to take what was hers to protect. The itinerantur was different than others in the sense that it changed depending on its holder; it was not ruled by good or evil, only by the intent of its keeper.

Fox had no malintent or any lust for power; in turn the stone did - would not - not crave it. She did not want the stone in Sauron's hands, and the stone mirrored this wish.

The _itinerantur_ would work to protect itself from the eye because of it.

Yet, Fox's body hunched forward all the same, a useless attempt at shielding the relic from the ever watchful gaze.

She had been sensing _him,_ more often in the past months since Gandalf had shared the news of Sauron's awakening and, her anxiousness grew. His power, just a whisper of what it once was, of what it could be again, still reached far. His evil touched her at times, faint and wispy, but chilling all the same. He was stirring indeed.

It terrified her.

Abruptly, Fox pushed off the ledge over the door and, made her way toward the short trail that led to Bag End. Fear didn't suit her; she avoided it all costs. Fear was for _before._ For the girl she used to be. For before she embraced the Fox. Now, the Keeper had no use for it.

Her legs moved swiftly and, urgently, carried by a new sense of determination. The time for brooding was over; there would be many opportunities for that when she was traveling. At that moment, she had a part to play in an ancient war that had barely begun again, a dragon to kill, magic to guard and, dwarves to meet.

Fox would start with the dwarves.

Thankfully, it was _Tharkün_ who opened the door.

"Gandalf," Thorin greeted, "you said this place would be easy to find. I lost my way… twice. " He stepped through the threshold and into the warmly lit hobbit hole, unclasping the buttons of his cloak. The dwelling was neat and homely, with odd trinkets dutifully organized. The smell of mead mixed with pot roast that drifted through the house had Thorin inconspicuously glancing toward the dining area. "I would not have found it had it not been for the mark on the door."

"Mark? There is no mark on that door, it was painted a week ago!" a Hobbit Thorin assumed to be Mr. Baggins said indignantly, marching up to the door on his strange feet to check the validity of his own words. Gandalf saved the Halfling the trouble by speaking the truth. "There is a mark, I put it there myself," he said lowly, shoving the door close before the Hobbit could wander out.

Thorin ignored the quiet conversation of the Wizard and Hobbit at the door and made his way to where his kin were gathered further down the archway. Thorin caught Kili's eyes first and sent him a small smile in greeting before, passing the youngest of his sister-sons his coat.

"Bilbo Baggins, allow me to introduce the leader of our company, Thorin Oakenshield."

"So, this is the Hobbit." Thorin rumbled with folded arms, stepping up to the burglar Gandalf had spoken so highly of. Thorin towered above the hobbit, his entire demeanor unimpressed. This was the brave halfling Gandalf had lionized in his praises? The small man would serve better as a toothpick for the dragon than a thief for his company. But, because Thorin trusted Gandalf, he had to check nonetheless.

"Tell me then Mr. Baggins, have you done much fighting?"

"I beg your pardon" Bilbo retorted, sounding particularly unsettled at the idea of conflict.

Thorin, on instinct, began to circle the Hobbit, testing for any weakness or vulnerability. He found plenty of both. "Axe or sword, what is your weapon of choice?"

The way Mr. Baggins whirled around, wide-eyed and trembling like a fawnling cornered by a predator, stopped Thorin's stalking. A flash of golden eyes, wild curls and a sly twist of lips invaded his mind eye, ' _You're wolf lingers close to the surface, closer than anyone I've ever encountered before...'_

Thorin battled the unwelcome memory away and refocused on the halfling who seemed to have

regained his composure. Thorin took extra care to stand still, tall and kingly - he was no animal.

"Well, I do have some skill at conkers, if you must know, " Bilbo admitted dryly, knowing whatever answer he gave would be the wrong one. "But I fail to see why that's… relevant."

Thorin nodded in victory, correct in his assumptions. "Thought as much," he boasted, "He looks more like a grocer than a burglar."

The dwarves at his flank chuckled, and Thorin smirked in self-congratulations, turning to follow the direction of the heavenly aroma, intent on having a hardy meal.

Gandalf seemed to have read the King's mind. "Bilbo a bit of stew for Master Oakenshield, if you please."

The grocer nodded and scurried past the dwarves as they made their way through the to the ample dining table. Thorin noticed from the corner of his eyes his nephews wrestling each other in their haste to get to their seats. Part of him felt a rush of affection at the youngins actions, the other part of him felt a selfish pang of loss that hollowed his insides. Thorin did not know what was to come in the next months, years maybe, but he knew they would be boys no longer by the time the quest was complete.

As long as they still had life, in the end, Thorin would cope.

Balin pulled him from his musings of the prince's innocence, immediately asking the questions that would lead to answers Thorin did not want to divulge. In his start, the tip of Thorin's fingers bumped into a bowl placed in front of him. He hadn't realized the stew had been served.

"What news from the meeting in Ered Luin? Did they all come?"

That, Thorin could answer easily. He had been surprised and heartened when all seven kingdoms were present at the meeting he had assembled.

"Aye," the son of Durin agreed pridefully, "envoys from all seven kingdoms."

There was a ripple of cheer amongst the dwarves of the table.

Somewhere nearby, bushes shuffled, and the blooming magnolias were shifted to make way a figure in the dark, who left small footprints behind in the damp soil. The exclamations from inside paused the creature in its tracks; there would certainly be no cheers when it made itself known. Changing directions, the figure prowled soundlessly to the side of the house where the festivities seemed loudest.

"What do the dwarves of the Iron Hills say?" Dwalins signature gruff interrupted the shared zeal in the air. "Is Dain with us?"

 _Ah, Dwalin_ , Thorin thought, _hitting the nail on the head as usual_. The King once again focused on the broth, filling his lungs with breath only to release it in one sentence. "They will not come" he sighed in resignation. The dwarves at the table collectively shifted in disillusionment. Thorin plowed on anyway, willing his kin to understand. "They say this quest was ours and, ours alone," he explained, taking a swing of his drink to drown out the memory of their refusal.

Unbeknownst to Thorin, by a desk, and an ebbing fire; there was a window left open in Bilbo's negligence. Under the frame, a curly haired fox crouched low amongst the daisies, waiting and listening: allowing the hint of warmth from the fireplace to caress her cheek, while the chill of night's icy touch brushed the other.

"You're… going on a quest?" The Hobbit inquired. Before Thorin could reluctantly answer, Gandalf asked for more light before pulling out a frayed parchment from the depths of his robes; smoothing out the lines of the paper for all in the gathering to see.

Save one.

The Fox listened in on Gandalf's admittedly elaborate explanation of the map to The Lonely Mountain. She was sure he knew of her illicit presence, nothing escaped that old wizards notice and was trying to keep her involved. The Easterly paid rapt attention when a haughty voice ominously explained a prophecy that involved migrating birds and, grinned as another dwarf with a higher, lilted accent quite _artfully_ weaved an elaborate description of Smaug that left the panicky, sheltered Hobbit uneased. Hoping the dwarf would continue to tweak at the halflings nerves, Fox wondered how long it would take before ended up in a heap of limbs on the floor.

To Fox's entertainment, though she never made a habit of bullying Shirefolk, Hobbits were _always_ fainting. It was like their little bodies were not equipped to handle the rush of any strong emotion and, they shut down because of it. It was utterly ludicrous. Fox could barely believe it for quite some time. An entire race who's response to any stimulus was kneeling over in shock. Bloody _fantastic_.

Thorin, on the other hand, could not concentrate on the poetic words of Bofur to his left. Oin's prophecy bounced through his skull in a reassuring beat. It was time; it had been already foretold. He was right to do this. Right to bring these dwarves together no matter what type of peril such a task entails. Thorin latched onto a phrase with an iron grip, allowing the sentence to infuse him with hope. _The reign of the beast shall end_ …

Suddenly, the youngest Ri brother – Ori, Thorin believed his name was - launched to his feet, fist raised in pride and, excitement. "I'm not afraid, I'm up for it!" he said, rounded face set in determination. Thorin ducked his head, hurriedly shoving a spoonful of the hot liquid into his gob before the laugh he felt brewing spilled over. The youngest Ri brother was enthusiastic maybe even brave, he could not deny this, but the boy's fearlessness was quite grievously dampened by the childlike, patchy wisp of a beard braided on his chin and, the delicate knit of his sweater. "I'll give him a taste of dwarvish iron right up his jacksie!"

The table boomed with approval, Nori being the loudest. "Good man, Ori!"

Dori, the head of Ri clan, did not seem to share the sentiment.

"The task would be difficult enough with an army behind us," Balin cut off the tables cheers. The scolding inflection in his tone silenced the others. "But, we number at just thirteen," Gandalf gave a small, suspiciously timed cough that had the Dwarf King's thick brows arching, "and, not thirteen of the best. Nor brightest."

A burst of soft breeze masked the whisper of a wicked giggle blowing into the living room. The racket of offense, declarations of ambition made by princes, questions thrown at a sputtering wizard and, petty arguments drowned out the noise even further.

Thorin, who had been smirking in amusement at the Grey One's discomfort, felt his already short patience snap when the quarreling got out of hand.

 _Is this how the entire quest will be spent? Arguing amongst ourselves?_

He rose from his seat, a dwarvish silencing cry on his lips, "if we have read these signs, do you not think others will have read them too?"A hush fell amongst the different races in the room. "The dragon Smaug has not been seen for sixty years. Eyes look east to the mountain, assessing, wondering, weighing the risk. Perhaps the vast wealth of our people lies unprotected. Do we sit back, and let others claim what is rightfully ours?"

Thorin's deep, rolling accent echoed off the halflings walls and wafted through the open window. the sound alluring and, smooth like nectar. The shape below the frame absorbed the rich timbre shamelessly; too enthralled to think of why she was so affected or grow mortified that it was a dwarve that was touching her in such a way.

All Fox knew was he spoke like a true King; it was a surprise. She had only seen him as a wolf, snappish and territorial.

Unaware of any unwelcome audience members, Thorin's voice raised in passion. "Or, do we seize this chance to take back what is ours?! To take back Erebor!" Visions of glory fitted across Thorin's conscious; transient and hazy, yet wanted desperately nonetheless. " **Du Bekar! Du Bekar!** ", he finished, strongly - a call to arms.

The Dwarves of the fallen Kingdom Erebor acclaimed their King, shouts of agreement bred from the feeling of fellowship encompassing the dining area.

Of course, wise, level-headed Balin had to humble them all once again. "You forget the front get is sealed! There is no way into the mountain."

"That, my dear Balin, is not entirely true," Gandalf confessed, leaning forward importantly; his ashen eyes glinted with code and, long, wrinkled fingers rubbed together as if he was meant to be holding something between them. The Wizard's entire demeanor hinted at a well kept secret begging to reveal itself.

"Gandalf?" Thorin questioned hopefully, mimicking the larger man's huddled posture, "What have you planned?"

Gandalf's cracked lips pulled smugly under the pale cover of his salt beard. Instead of answering the dwarves questioning stares, he leaned back into his seat, hands clasping together. "Young Fox," the Wizard called, turning to face the other end of the house. Bilbo looked around wildly in confusion, as did the seated Durinfolk. Only Thorin sat frozen, heart sinking. Paranoia rising. _No. No. He can't mean-_

"It is time to step out of the shadows, into the light."

* * *

 **A/N: Enjoy!**


	5. Caution in the Clouds

" _The beasts are a better version of man."  
-Anguis_

* * *

 **Chapter 5: Caution in The Clouds**

As far as the Fox knew, proper Western etiquette demanded that one enter a home using the designated entrance for it; in this case, a green, freshly painted, magically marked circular door.

She entered through the window anyway.

"Ahhh, my dear, you are late," Gandalf addressed enthusiastically - too much so- as he stood from his seat with open arms, gesturing at the poorly lit room around him. Fox padded through the archway slowly; purposely keeping her gaze trained firmly on the old man, and posture straight. Humanlike.

She heard the dwarves muttering in alarm, shifting at the table. She ignored them, figuring it was best not to overwhelm them, their leader or herself yet.

"Bilbo, Thorin and, Company, I am honored to introduce you to my good friend, Fox."

Were the Fox not, well _The Fox,_ she would have missed the caution in the clouds of the Grey Wizards ancient eyes or the subtle warning in his greeting.

Gandalf wanted her _tame_. How sweet.

"What," it was the Hobbit who spoke first, capturing the young woman's attention, "How did…" Bilbo's shook his sandy head desperately: hysteria settled in the bottom of his stomach only to steadily push up his chest. " _How did you get into my house!?"_

Fox glanced in the direction of the high, unmistakably male voice. There, reaching barely over three feet, stood a panting, red-faced, middle-aged Hobbit.

 _So, this is Bilbo Baggins_ , she mused, he does look like a grocer. With his pressed slacks, crisp white shirt, clipped nails perfectly manicured and soft skine, everything about Bilbo screamed of a facile existence. A comfortable home.

Her gaze unintentionally sharpened critically. What was Gandalf playing at? The dragon would chew Bilbo up and, spit him out in an instant.

Bilbo shuddered away from her golden orbed scrutiny, small body moving as if to cower. His Took mother had told him stories of the darkly skinned tallfolk that resided in the far corners of Middle Earth; beastial and lawless. She used to mumble into the night of what the desert dwellers could do, the type of evil they became known for, but Bilbo rallied quickly to meet her stare.

Fox noticed. It seemed the Hobbit would not be intimidated in his own home.

 _Good._

"Pardon my raised voice Miss but _what,_ may I be so bold to ask, are you doing in my home?"

 _Brave for a Hobbit._ Maybe there is hope for him yet.

"You should really close your windows, Master Bilbo. Who knows what type of animals may be lurking about," Fox droned lazily, with a playful flick of her tongue and a wink. Her attempt at putting the Halfling at ease.

Regardless, Bilbo flinched back at the innate ferocity of the fully cloaked woman in his home, not realizing this was the Fox's messy attempt at being friendly.

"You came in… through the window?"

"The _open_ window," Fox snickered throatily, the previously harmless crinkle in her eyes deepening into something absoloutley _tigerish_ unbeknowst to her.

Bilbo choked on his tongue, Gandalf looked slightly pained, and the Fox barely noticed; content with her ability at being moderately pleasant.

"Well, _who the ruddy hell_ are you?"

Fox tensed at the roar, barely stopping herself from coiling to spring and, hating the way her muscles jerked uselessly instead. She turned stiffly toward the dwarve that, like Thorin, was on his feet. He was on the taller side like his King; bald, iron-faced, stockily built and, covered in the tattoos of a war veteran.

" _Dwalin son of Fundin_ ," Gandalf thundered, to her right. The floor shook, ale spilling in his outrage. "This is a meeting of allies! Never again will you speak to her in such a tone! Did you not hear me say she is a _friend_?!"

The dwarve refused to appear chastised and stared resolutely at Fox. It was obvious, like many, he distrusted the race of Man - especially those of the East.

She could not blame him.

Though it was difficult, with the heat of the stone blazing around her neck, causing the tremor in her thighs that begged for an attack, Fox did not acknowledge the dwarve.

He screamed of pride - to be ignored would be a substantial blow to it.

Therefore, Fox met the glower of a Wolf rather than indulge the old warrior's rage. Thorin Oakenshield looked no different than he did a few days ago in the Old Forest; dark, strong, untrusting. Wieghted by a failure that was not his own.

Thorin was born a Keeper like her. She could see it in every line in his face, in the set of his jaw. In the resolve ingrained into his soul. But, unlike Fox, who was the first of the Keepers in her "line" his line had been abandoned by their stone. Left behind to be overcome with insanity, weakness. Imbalance.

"Hello Wolf," she purred, tipping her chin toward Thorin before stepping closer to the table, pushing any pity stirring in her heart aside. The Dwarven King stood completely still in front of her, dinner forgotten and, knuckles pale in strain. "I have something of yours."

"Thorin," through the sounds of shock filling the room, Fox recognized the same nasally voice that expertly and, oh so subtly, insulted the other dwarves at the table, "you know this… woman?"

"Yes, Balin. That is the question indeed," Gandalf hummed, glancing between the two curiously.

"What is the meaning of this Gandalf," Thorin grated, "obviously, you cannot be trusted if you are sharing Dwarven affairs with the likes of _her-_ "

"Save me from the suspicion of dwarves! If you wish to be successful as a King, Thorin Oakenshield - "

Suddenly, a hush fell in the room as Fox moved quickly. Dwalin and Thorin tensed, bracing themselves for a charge but, she made no such movement. Fox with a nimble flourish, pulled a rusty key from her cloak and held it up for the room to see.

None were more affected than Thorin by the sight.

"How came you by this," he exhaled, almost reverently. He had only seen that key once before, many years ago….

Gandalf was the one to respond.

"It was given to me by your father, by Thrain, for safekeeping. I have held onto it for many years but, evil rouses. I find myself amongst the unsavory type more often than not these days," his voice echoed gravely, wizened features darkening, just scarcely revealing the weight of the wizards burdens. "Five months ago, I entrusted the key to Fox. She has been watching over it ever since. I know this young Fox well, Thorin Oakenshield, and I will tell you that entrusting her was not an action I took lightly. You should consider yourself lucky the likes of _her_ are willing to assist your cause."

Despite Thorin's distracted nod, he did not look wholly convinced. Awestruck but, not in agreement.

"This belongs to you now," she murmured, smoldering gently. If there was one thing Fox understood well, it was familial loss and she extended her arm forward, cradling the antiquity between blood-soaked claws; a peace offering, though the King would not accept it as such.

Thorin reached out carefully to take the key from the Fox's outstretched hold; snatching the item briskly once it met his calloused touch. His company seemed to alternate between pinning her with suspicious eyes and gaping at the item which belonged to their past fallen King.

"If there is a key… there must be a door," a dashing, young dwarve uttered; unnecessarily dramatic.

Any softness that smoothened the grooves of Fox's appearance melted instantly. Her hardy snort and, spiked grin shattered the fragile atmosphere. " _Oh_ , you don't say,"

Almost every dwarve in the room shot her a dirty look, amplified by their apparent disgust. Thorin's snarl and the glare of the beardless young dwarf next to the blonde, were the only reactions she paid mind to. _Interesting…_

Gandalf ignored the animosity, choosing to continue with the meeting. He went on to explain ancient runes, invisible doors and the necessity of a burglar.

Fox paid little attention.

Runes and maps were not her job, nor did it particularly bother her whether the dwarves or Bilbo himself believed he was a burglar. At the end the Hobbit had to be the one to take the Arkenstone, he was the only one who could. Halflings were selfless, simple creatures with not a greedy bone in their body; Bilbo was Gandalf and Fox's best chance for not only stealing back the stone but, keeping it from ensnaring another.

The dwarves began arguing, snapping at Bilbo's role in the plan. While Gandalf scolded them - raging in the authoritative voice of his wizard ancestors, sorcery swirling around him in a formidable armor - Fox took a moment to observe the dumbstruck dwarves.

They were a silly lot. Short and, stout with facial hair bigger than they were, though, she supposed that was a point of pride for the dwarven race. They all blended together in a flurry of sturdy coats, thick hair and muted colors. They were too similar to one another. Their faces too unfamiliar to Fox for her to be able to tell them apart.

But, not for the stone.

Fox allowed the warmth constantly exuding from the _itinerantur_ a tolken of its power, to wash over her, and willed herself to see as the stone would. To be receptive of souls rather than appearances - of who they are as opposed to who they seem to be. She closed her eyes, and the heat tripled.

 _Let me look with your eyes, friend._

When Fox opened her eyes again the world was hazy, her mortal eyes not meant to see beyond what was pysical, but the few with the strongest _fea selvas_ \- spirit animals - were bright. Their outlines sharp through the obscure, like the desert sun in a sandstorm.

Fox could sense the alpha wolf in Thorin, the angry boar in Dwalin. She felt the sleeping Lion in the blonde dwarve and the eager to please wolf cub in the dark-haired dwarve beside him. There were a few other strong spirits - the old snowy owl in Balin and the playful Great Dane in the ridiculously hatted male next to Thorin. But, most of the dwarves in front of her blurred. Either their animals hadn't formed fully or, been so neglected they withered.

She shook the sensations off, temple beginning to throb.

" - the scent of Hobbits is all but, unknown to him, which gives us a distinct advantage." Gandalf continued the monologue Fox had ignored until that point, finally sitting down to address Thorin calmly, "You asked me to find the fourteenth member of your company and, I have chosen. I even went as far as to choose a fifteenth member, as well," the Wizards shrouded eyes, darted over to Fox. "Fox is… peculiar I will admit, but since I cannot promise to be able to guide you throughout your entire journey, She is ready and, willing to do so in my stead."

"You're not coming with us?" exclaimed the cub around a frown.

Fox released a quick breath of mirth as she remembered he was the one to boldly state that they would be in the company of a dragon-slaying wizard.

Another dwarve with red hair and a large nose, even for dwarven standards, seemed to agree with the Cubs distress. "Well, that's just bleeding fantastic! No Wizard, no army -"

"I will travel with you as far and often as I can, young Master Kili. And, rest assured Master Gloin you will have my support, " Gandalf soothed firmly, "but, remember as I said, evil stirs. There are other matters I must attend to. Fox, on the other hand, has far too much free time on her hands. She knows the wilds of the Land far better than I. Her guidance is more suited for this quest than one of a tired old man." His lips curled merrily, gracing the Fox behind him with a fond, yet wary gleam.

"This is not what we discussed Gandalf," Thorin rumbled with distaste, ire growing steadily now that the distraction of the door and the halfling was gone. Fox waited, amused and impatient, to hear what type of objections will come from the Wolf. But Gandalf stopped the dwarve before he could complain further.

"Bilbo has more to offer than any of you know, including himself. The Fox's skills I believe would be valuable to your quest. You must trust me on this. Trust my faith in them."

There was a beat of silence as the room waited for Thorin's verdict; Fox wished he would look in her direction again so she could flash a bit of teeth at him. She enjoyed the wolf rattled and the mood in the sparsely lit area was too severe for her liking.

"Very well,we will do it your way. Balin, give him a contract. I will talk to _the_ _Fox,_ personally." Thorin spat the title out like acid. It made her shoulders roll, expression twisting in anticipation.

"Very well." Balin cleared his throat, passing the contract to Bilbo. "Everything you need to know."

Inconspicuously, Thorin bent over to whisper to Gandalf, faces solemn.

Fox stopped listening when Balin said "funeral arrangements," shifting her undivided attention to the dazed-looking halfling. Bilbo clenched the parchment in his hands, voice growing weaker as he read off the listed potential causes of death when in proximity to a dragon. The Great Dane jumped at his opportunity; leaning over to leer at Bilbo under his ridiculous hat, pipe still in hand.

Fox felt torn between feeling sorry for the poor hobbit, or a cruel glee at what was to come.

"Oh aye. He'll melt the flesh off your bones in the blink of an eye."

Bilbo somehow looked simultaneously pale and flushed. Balin appeared genuinely concerned, "you okay, laddie?"

"Huh," he puffed, "Yes, yes. I fee…" The hobbit exhaled shallowly, rubbing his knees. "I feel a bit faint."

"Think furnace, with wings." the dwarve teased, gesturing with his lit pipe.

"Ahhh," the Halfling groaned, "I-I-I need some air."

 _Oh, it will be any moment now_. Bilbo lasted longer without kneeling over longeer than she thought he would.

Perhaps Gandalf knew what he was doing in choosing this Hobbit after all _._

"Flash of light, searing pain, then, puff!" the playful dwarve was relentless, "you're nothing but, a pile of ash!"

Fox could only stare as Bilbo seemed to seriously deliberate whether or not he would allow himself to collapse. There was a second of decision before Bilbo shook his head and, promptly keeled over.

"Oh very helpful, Bofur." Gandalf snapped, moving to help the Shireling. Bofur made his way toward the crumpled Hobbit as well, his hearty chuckle ringing with a hint of guilt.

The desert dweller cackled madly; the sound crackling down like a bolt of lightning.

"Took him long enough," she crowed, honey skin stretched too far over her cheekbones to be polite, disregarding the winces and disdain directed at her and relishing in the flex of Throin's bicep. The flaring of his nostrils. "I am partly responsible for that."

"My dear Fox, that is not something to be proud of."

* * *

 **A/N - Thank you for the support reviews last chapter! Special shout out to:**

 _ **Tibblets**_

 _ **April016**_

 _ **WolfimusPrime**_

 _ **MrsTChrist**_

 _ **Inperfection**_

 **Thank you all!**


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